


euphoria

by Kalgalen



Series: this home we built [4]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Gen, Nonbinary Maxwell, Talks About Gender, gender euphoria, trans Jacobi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 10:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13878735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: In which pieces fall into place and words are put on feelings.





	euphoria

**Author's Note:**

> agender lesbian ace Maxwell is So Important to me my Guys

Learning to know someone, Maxwell thinks, is a painfully long process, and doesn't always pay off. It's hard to differentiate between the people you keep company with because you genuinely get along with them, and the ones you’ve just learned to tolerate because no one else will bother acknowledging the weird quiet child with too-large, too-curious eyes. Maxwell has met her fair share of people belonging to the second category. From the first - not really.

Actually, if she's being honest with herself, Jacobi might be the first person she’s felt truly comfortable with. From the moment they met - her, the new kid, intimidated by a whole world of new possibilities, and him, a few years of experience on her, using his sarcasm not to make her feel dumb but to put her at ease - there had been an understanding, a kinship she'd never felt with any of her actual siblings. She knows it's true for him as well; the walls he builds to keep people at bay open for her as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

(Maxwell doesn’t believe in soulmates, but that's as close as it gets.)

Her relationship with Kepler is a different matter. He doesn’t make her feel - unsafe, either. At least, not for the reason most men make dread creep up her spine. She doesn't doubt he’d kill her with his bare hands if his “bigger picture” called for it, but it's not a worrying kind of certainty; she understands him, most of the time, and that's more than she can say about her connection to most people.

She's not quite sure about what sets apart her relationship with those two men from all the others she had to form before - until it all clicks in place, like evidence dragged in the light of the day:

They don't see her as a woman.

She didn't have to earn their respect by proving she could be competent “for a woman”; she showed them what she could do, and they accepted it. She's smarter than the both of them combined. She's a better shot. She might not be the most athletic, but she pulls her weight, and they don't try to lighten her load because she's a “fragile girl”. Her place here feels _deserved_ , as much as if she’d been a man. As if her gender never even factored in how she'd be treated.

They don't see her as a woman, and the realization blooms warm and pleasant in her chest.

(Learning to know someone takes time, but she never thought she’d take that long to learn to know herself.)

* * *

 

 

She experiences it again the first time she actually has to gear up to go on the field. The clothes she’s been given are practical, and of course, non gender specific. Thick pants, long-sleeved shirt, combat boots; the body armor is a bit more tricky to put on on her own and she has to twist in front of the locker room mirror to strap it around her body - but once she's done, she looks at herself in the mirror, and the warm feeling spread in her chest again, some sort of deep satisfaction and a feeling of _rightness_ that threaten to overwhelm her for a second as she takes in her appearance  - clad in black, functional, not a hint of feminine figure under the heavy fabric and padded chestplate.

She doesn't know how long she stays standing here, staring at the way her body looks _right_ for the first time in as long as she can remember. A knock on the door tears her away from her contemplation - Jacobi, checking up on her.

“Everything alright in there, Alana?”

She shakes herself and clears her throat before answering, her voice wavering a bit:

“Yeah, I'm fine! Coming.”

She grabs her helmet and leaves the locker room. Jacobi is waiting outside, hiding his concern under a frown, but his tone betrays him immediately when he speaks up.

“It’s going to be alright, ok? I'm not letting anyone get close to you.”

She blinks in surprise.

“What? Oh, the mission?”

Jacobi squints at her. “Yeah, the mission. Are you sure you're fine? You look a bit- weird.”

She opens her mouth, ready to tell him about what she felt - he might not be able to relate, but at least he can listen as she puts words on it - but then she remembers the van waiting for them outside and the delicate schedule they have to follow, and waves her hand dismissively.

“Later. I’ll tell you later, when we come back.”

He doesn’t look entirely convinced but lets it go, and they leave toward the exit.

(If Maxwell stomps her boots a little harder than necessary because she enjoys the dull sound they produce, well. It’s her own business.)

* * *

They drag themselves back to Jacobi’s apartment - previously their shared living space, until Maxwell had found her own place a couple of weeks ago. Most of her stuff is still scattered around Jacobi’s flat, though, and she regularly comes back to grab something she forgot, or just enjoy the company.

She collapses on the couch with a grunt, massaging her painful thighs and the knots in the muscles that connect her neck to her shoulders. The shower she took at the base as soon as they came back hasn’t managed to entirely dissipate the tension brought by seventy-two hours of barely-sleeping, crouched on top of buildings, formally forbidden to miss any of the shots she’d take. She gratefully accepts the warm mug Jacobi hands her a couple of minutes later, makes a noise of disappointment when she smells hot chocolate instead of coffee.

“No complaining,” Jacobi warns, settling next to her, holding a similar mug. “We’re drinking this, and then we’re sleeping until Saturday night.”

“...What happens on Saturday night?”

He shrugs. “Reruns of the first two Mad Max?”

Alana snorts into her hot chocolate. “Alright, nerd.” Then, softer: “Thanks.”

He shrugs again, a small smile playing on his lips. “Don’t mention it.”

The quiet spreads in the room as they sip out of their cup, and total silence is usually something Maxwell finds unnerving and needs to fill with low music or chatter from the tv - but as most things when it comes to Jacobi, it feels cosy and serene instead.

“So,” he says after a while. “You were looking a bit off before the mission. But, you did pretty good, right? No need to feel nervous, or anything.”

She stares at him in surprise, then laughs.

“What?” he asks - not _whining_ , he would insist. “What did I say?”

“You thought I was nervous about the mission?”

“I mean, yeah? First kill - _kills_ \- and all?”

She sobers up, makes a face. Those aren't feelings she wants to examine right now.

“Oh. Yeah, no. That was… _not_ about that.”

She drinks from her cup to give herself time to think, and he just waits.

“Have you ever-” she starts. Stops with a frown, tries again: “Have you ever felt like your body wasn't right?”

His gaze is suddenly sharp on her, and she looks away after a second, feeling self-conscious.

“What do you mean?” he says slowly, cautiously. She shrugs uncomfortably.

“Well. Like- like it doesn't look like it's supposed to. I'm not talking things like hair or eye color, just-”

She trails off, unsure of how to finish, and he fills in, his voice low and tentative:

“The wrong shape? …Like you got the wrong model?”

She snorts at the comparison.

“Ah! Yeah, something like that. I guess.” She looks up at him, takes in his carefully neutral expression, and feels ridiculous all of a sudden.

“That doesn't make sense, does it? It's just another thing wrong with me.”

“It's not wrong!” he says forcefully, putting a hand on her shoulder. “God, Alana, there's nothing wrong with you. Difference isn't _wrong_.”

It feels good to hear him say that, but she's still unconvinced.

“It’s just- I saw my reflection, and it didn't look like me, but it looked _right_. With the bulletproof vest,” she clarifies. “I didn't look like- like a-”

She stops. She trusts him, but is what she's trying to say too alien? How can she make him understand exactly how it feels?

“Like a woman,” he finishes for her, and there's- _recognition_ , in his tone.

“Yeah,” she says softly. Then, looking at him from the corner of her eyes: “You don’t look surprised.”

He shrugs, gives an awkward smile.

“Well, you know. Been there, done that. Collected a few scars along the way. Worth it.”

She puts her face in her mug, absentmindedly blowing air through her mouth so that her glasses fog up. She doesn't say anything for a minute, and he leaves her to her thoughts, taking his hand back.

“I didn't know,” she says finally. “You don’t look like a wo-”

“It's because I'm not,” he snaps, cutting, then shakes his head. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am now. I don't- really like being reminded of the beginnings.”

“Sorry.”

“...It's fine.”

“It's- new to me, all of this.”

He looks at her incredulously. “Trans people are new to you? Have you been living in a cave?”

“I’ve been raised in a _very_ christian family, that's pretty much the same.”

“You’re in your mid-twenties, you must have heard _some_ stuff.”

She shifts on her seat. “I've been- busy.”

He sighs, settles more comfortably against the couch cushion, and takes a sip of hot chocolate.

“Alright. That's okay, never too late to learn about this stuff. Rule number one: if someone says they’re a man, then they are a man, no matter what their birth certificate says.”

She attempts to smile, but it probably comes off a little lopsided. “Sounds fair.”

“Hm. Rule number two: you're the only one who gets to decide how you want to look. Maybe you don't want to look like a woman. Maybe you don't feel like one.”

After a moment of hesitation, she shakes her head.

“It’s not me,” she says. “I- it doesn't feel good, when people look at me and see a woman. I-” she snorts, “I _love_ women, you know that, I'm just not sure I am one.”

“It's alright. Would you prefer to be a man?”

She considers it for a bit, mentally tries on the identity like she would try on a suit, and finds it ill-fitting.

“No,” she says finally. “That doesn't feel right either.” She's worried, suddenly. “Not a man and not a woman, what else is there?”

“Calm down, ‘lana. It's not a either/or situation. How about ‘none of the above’?”

She looks at him, a dubitative on her face. “How does that even work?”

Jacobi spreads his arms as he searches for his words. “Well, I think it’s like- you don’t have to fit into a mold, you know? If none of the options in the binary fits you, maybe you need to create your own identity. That’s not forbidden.”

“Oh!” It makes some sense, now, as she remembers some discussions she had with old generation AIs who didn’t have a voice of their own to indicate a gender. “Oh. Hm. Like… using ‘they’ instead of ‘he’ or ‘she’?”

He makes an emphatic gesture with his hand. “Yeah, like that! You don’t _have_ to. It’s really up to you how you want to express it.”

“Alright.” Maxwell nods thoughtfully, her brain processing the new informations, looking for connections that have always been there but that she never cared to look into. “Alright, I’m going to think about- all that.” She gives a timid smile. “Thanks, Daniel.”

He smiles back, holds out his mug for her to clink hers against it. “No problem.”


End file.
